


Pride and Glory

by The_Anglophile



Category: Oasis (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sad sack!Noel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Anglophile/pseuds/The_Anglophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 2008 and tension is high.  Things are just as they've always been between him and Liam, and for Noel that's no longer acceptable, especially because he and Liam are no longer who they used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride and Glory

It's only recently I've taken your childish qualities seriously. They've made life difficult for me in the past, yes, but I'd never really seen them as an honest problem until a few months ago. It's your childishness, after all, that's contributed largely to our legend and continued press popularity, and where would I be without that?

You're so different when you're alone with me compared to how you are in others' company. The contrast really struck me the last time you snuck round to my hotel after a gig. (There's one sign my plan won't be easy to execute: I go to all the trouble of getting a separate hotel to stay in, but then when you ask me where I'm going I give you the room number. Force of habit, I suppose.)

Anyway, in you came around 1 am, stinking of the alcohol I'd advised you not to drink before I left, and looking a bit perkier than I'd have preferred at this hour of the night. You kissed me as soon as the door was shut, and then shucked off your shoes and parka, dropping them to the floor, and went and made yourself at home in the middle of my bed. I went and joined you and we idly watched TV for a while, slagging off the ridiculous late-night adverts and making each other laugh.

Then, out of the blue, you hit me with a loaded question.

"What is it you see in 'im?" As if I'm meant to know who you're talking about. Whoever it is, this isn't going to be a fun conversation.

"Who?"

"Ya know, the bloke with the daft 'aircut."

Oh, fuck. Not again. "You mean Russell?"

"Yeh, 'im."

"Why does it matter to you what I think of him?" I challenged.

"I think 'e's a weirdo."

"You don't know him."

"Well, I don't like him, he's loony and a pain in the arse."

"Please tell me what that's got to do with me."

"I reckon you shouldn't waste your time on a daft cunt like that."

"Well, whatever you reckon, I plan to do as I like, thank you." I could see you weren't well pleased by this; your jaw was set and your eyes had gone stormy. I attempted to smooth things over a little. "I've told you so many times - _he's_ told you - you're welcome to come down and do the radio show with us whenever you like."

Your expression lightened not one jot. "I'd rather not."

"He'd like to be friends with you, you know."

"Would 'e?" You scowled. "Why ain't 'e rung me up, then?"

"'ave you even given him your number? Come on, kid, you know you're intimidating to people."

"I reckon if 'e really wanted to talk to me, he could get my number off you."

Ok, now that was just stupid. "Yeah, and then _you'd_ go mental on me for giving it to him! You're being ridiculous."

"Who's ridiculous! I'm not the one 'anging out with fucking long-haired nutters and junkie twerps!"

"Who're you calling long-haired, you idiot, look at yourself! And, for your information, Russell's been clean for years, which is something _you_ 'ave yet to achieve!"

You snorted with rage, looking as though you might hit me, then thought better of it and got off the bed. If I'd hoped you would just leave quietly, I should have known better. You were still drunk, and when you're drunk you tend to speak with your hands rather than words. You grabbed the bedside lamp, ripped its cord from the wall, and, despite my protests, smashed it into the far corner of the room before grabbing your parka, slipping on your shoes, and leaving in a huff.

I slid down in the bed, feeling sick and miserable, and wondering why this had to happen over and over and over again.

The phone rang. It was the front desk. Yes, I was fine. No, there would be no more disturbances. Not tonight, anyway.

I spent half an hour or so sitting in the cold air on the balcony, watching the moon set behind mountains I didn't recognise. I wanted to sleep, but the room felt suffocating, and the sick feeling wouldn't let me be. The smashed lamp kept catching my eye, so I went out and looked at the low-hanging black clouds covering the sky, the light of a distant city illuminating them from beneath.

I finally got too cold and went back inside, but the lamp was still there, and I ended up putting the broken pieces in a pillowcase and leaving it out in the corridor for the housekeepers to dispose of. I did sleep after that.

\---

The next time I saw you, which was the following evening, I didn't recognise you from across the room until you scowled at me. You'd shaved all your hair off. I was so surprised I just stood there staring at you for a minute. You take such pride in that shiny mane of yours, I couldn't quite believe you'd done away with it. Your harsh new haircut made you look at least five years older, and a lot more tired. Now that there was nothing to draw attention away from the lines on your face, they seemed to stand out clearly.

I had woken that morning in a pretty good mood considering what had gone on the night before, but a cloud descended over me during that night's show. I couldn't put any feeling into the songs, and I think I dragged the rest of the band down, honestly. After the gig, I moped in my dressing room for a bit, then decided to stop being such a miserable cunt and see what everyone else was doing. I went to the catering area to look for a snack, noticing that you were already there, surrounded by a cluster of people.

Something made me pause and I stood quietly in the doorway, just watching you as you talked and laughed with your little group. They were listening with anticipation as you told a funny story, leading up to the climax with all the exaggeration and hand-gestures in your repertoire. You had a drink in hand, but you were too absorbed in your performance to give it much attention, and it just punctuated your sentences with a slosh when you waved it around.

I used to roll my eyes at you a bit when you would get really animated like this, but I just can't anymore. Now I can see you in a different way than I had done in the past. I can see you through the eyes of other people, and you're not just a silly boy anymore; you've grown up in so many ways. Sometimes I wish that I could borrow somebody else's body so I could spend time with you. With the version of you that you show to everyone but me. No, you're not a silly boy any longer. In fact, you're not a boy at all.

You make me feel young, you always have. But I'm hardly young anymore, so where does that put you? As I looked at you, I realised quite suddenly why I had been feeling down all day, and it was because of what you'd done to your hair. Now you looked like every other man your age, and that was something I didn't want to think about. In my mind you were perpetually 21, and your shining, thick hair went a long way to preserve the illusion for me. I didn't care what crazy things you did with it as long as it was there to back up the lies that I told myself.

I felt now like the velvet curtain had been lifted, and instead of the handsome magician, I was now faced with an ordinary man with his costume off, the stage makeup that had made him vibrant and rosy now washed away to reveal the skin of an ageing mortal man.

I sometimes think to myself, when I'm in a hopeless mood, that if you ever go bald I'll just have to walk off a bridge. Silly thought, but sometimes I really mean it when I'm thinking it. Just for a few seconds, before I tell myself to stop wallowing and go play some Beatles tunes, it really seems like a good idea. What would be the point of existing in a world without your beauty in it, after all? If I could sell my soul to the devil so that he would let you stay forever young, I would do it in a heartbeat.

I still remember my first rude awakening to my own mortality, brought about by your sharp eyes. You like to tug on the little grey patch in my fringe; you have done since it appeared years ago - you were the first to notice it, actually, on tour one night.

"Noelly," you said, "Ya know you've gone a bit bit silvery up 'ere?"

"What?" I glared at you. I thought you were taking the piss.

"You 'ave. Go take a look."

Unlike you, I don't spend a lot of time pouting at myself in reflective surfaces, so this was really the first time I'd noticed my hair going grey. It was only a few hairs at this point, but considering I had entered my thirties only months ago, my feelings regarding this development were mixed to say the least.

"Fucking hell, I've one foot in the grave," I muttered as I examined the offending hairs in the mirror.

"No, you 'aven't," you said, appearing beside me, "Now you just look like the sort of old, wise geezer you've always been." Since that day, you've assured me that you like 'the silvery bit', and that's mainly why I haven't dyed it, to be honest.

I guess I'd somehow managed up until this tour to deny the signs of ageing that had slowly begun to make their marks on you. The reality that you weren't invincible, that you wouldn't live forever, hit me all at once and it did my head in. How much of your life have I stolen from you? Will you look around you someday and resent me for what I've done? All you ever think of, when you're not thinking of yourself, is me. It weighs heavily on my conscience, and all I want is for you to live your own life, and not the life I've given you - the glimmering bubble that could pop at any moment to reveal the hard, dirty world outside.

When we were younger I thought you would take those first steps away from me on your own, but you never did. You still have not. You're curled up here in my world, never stretching your legs, never spreading your wings, content to spend your days in the garden that I planted.

And so I must leave. I'm not sure how or when, but one day I'm going to walk out and leave you in this garden. It's full of everything you need to survive, and maybe, with me gone, it will start to grow the flowers of your soul instead of mine. Maybe one day I'll return and find the garden overgrown with glorious blossoms I've never seen before, and there in the centre of them all I'll find you, planting your own world without me.

~

**Author's Note:**

> Read the complete collection of my Oasis fic (including the R and NC-17 ones that won't be posted to Ao3) at my archive: <http://the_anglophile.dreamwidth.org/669.html>


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